Beast Of Blood
by LonelyWalker
Summary: This is... something I wrote in the middle of the night listening to this song by Malice Mizer. The song was quite depressing, so is the fic. More inside. Oh, read and review!


Author Notes: I wrote this in the middle of the night, when I couldn't get any sleep. I listened to this song non-stop all night. It's Malice Mizer's Beast of blood and that's where the fic got its name. Anyway, this is not a song fic, it was just inspired by a song. I just LOVE J-rock!

Disclaimer: I don't own Yamato (Damnit!) nor do I own digimon or anything else, but the story line. Even the inspiration came from outside...

BEAST OF BLOOD  
by lonelywalker

It started a long time ago. I was sixteen at the time, a water proof teen angst in the prink of insanity. I was very depressed, with medication. I just didn't eat my drugs. I didn't eat anything.

Anorexia nervosa, they said. I didn't believe them. I didn't want to be thinner, I just had no interest in food. It was when my friends heard of the idea that I had that decease, that they started to make distance to me. That was something I _did_ care, but not enough to try and get better.

I think I played in a band, with other four angst-ridden guys. Music was our way to let the pain out, I guess. I remember playing with them in the bright neon lights at that last evening. At school prom, if I recall the words right. It's hard to remember what the words mean. I remember singing... Did I sing? There was a guitar too. But it doesn't matter.

I had a secret, then. It may be the only thing I really remember clearly. Not a big one. Not even very uncommon, I guess, but for me... I regretted every time I did it. Not in the minute, but after. I used to cut myself, stab deep into my fair skin with sharp objects, like knifes, razorblades, scissors... Hell, even with my own teeth in the end. I used to lick the wounds till they dried, like a wolf. It became an obsession to me. I dripped salt to the wounds to make them bleed longer and to hurt so much more...

In that last evening I couldn't wait till I got home. I left without waiting anyone, without helping my band with the equipments. I ran, trying to get home as soon as I could, but then... I never got there. The dark alley called for me and I rushed to it, before ripping all the old scars open with my teeth. My guitar case fell on the ground as I greedily drank the blood, flooding from the wounds. I didn't want to die. I didn't even think the possibility of dying.

You have probably seen those movies, "Dracula" and "Queen of the damned", maybe even read the books behind the films. But it means nothing, for they're only books, written by humans. I know what it feels like. I made myself like this.

I bled to death on that alleyway, though it felt like falling asleep. When I woke up I was still there, lying in the filth with my fancy clothes. I was beautiful, the world was beautiful, but even more beautiful was the lingering taste of blood on my lips. I wanted more. I _needed_ more. Much, much more.

I felt everything. The footsteps on the ground, the blood running in the veins of all those unaware people... I felt their heartbeat, I _heard_ it. Every human around me in the sleeping city. No one could hide from me. My humanity, the last bits of it, screamed at me. Something was wrong, I was wrong. It wasn't right to devour those sounds. It wasn't _right_ to yearn for that blood.

It was torture. I tried to cover my ears as I fell screaming on my kneesbegging for help, somebody to end the nightmare. Somebody who would wake me up. No one came, and I couldn't fight it anymore. I rushed forward with the speed of light, desperate to eat. I was strangling to my thirst.

My first victim was a girl, younger that me. She was all alone in some empty parking lot without anywhere to go. She was crying, scared of the dark. When I saw her, she was doomed. She never knew what hit her. The noises stopped and my senses calmed down as the warmth of her bloodran inside me. My hot tears washed the blood of her beautiful face and I'll never forget the look in her empty eyes.

With every drop of blood running down my throat I feel more beautiful, more powerful. I hunt at night when there are more people alone in the city. If there's none, I lure them out of their crowds. I have no limits, no lines, no borders at all. My thirst, my hunger, drives me forward, my tortured senses.

Upon their bodies I cry. I never cried much in my life but now, after my death you could fill an ocean with my bitter tears. When a drop of blood escapes my lips, my life becomes greater torture than my hunger ever. That regret burns in me every time my mind is calm and my humanity rises to the surface. The deep red colour screams at me and I remember how good everything used to be before all this, before I made the first bleeding cut to my arm, when I used to be home.

Home, what is it? _Where_ is it? I can recall two faceless people, smiling down at me from their heights, and a small hand, gripping mine. Did I have a brother? I remember big, innocent blue eyes looking up at me. I don't remember his name. I remember feeling something other than this hunger in me. Something warm and safe.. My mind has a word for it, but I don't know if it's the right word. I'd like to call it 'love', but I don't remember what the word means.

Nothing can stop me. Crosses are no use, silver won't harm me and my wounds heal faster than eye can see. Praying? I let them pray if I have any control over my hunger. Usually I don't.

Sometimes... Sometimes I sit on a roof of a high building. On the front of it reads "Tokyo University", but I don't care what it means. All I care about is one specific human being that sometimes walks around in the yard. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other people. He's beautiful in his life, like a torch of fire, burning bright from the beginning to the end.

He reminds me of someone I can't remember. That brown bush of brown hair and those alive chocolate eyes. He's a mystery and I love watching him. I long for him, my heart screams for him, but I just watch at him.

He uses black clothes. He's always wearing black jeans and a t-shirt, sometimes with a long-sleeved shirt under it. On the front of that shirt reads: _"For the sake of loneliness, hurt and anger I keep living, just to give a shit about everyone around me. - In memory of Ishida Yamato."_ On the back of it is an image of a howling wolf and the words: _"The Teenage Wolves"_.

Yamato... why does it sound do familiar? Sometimes I play with the thought that it is my name. Maybe it is. It doesn't matter anymore. Maybe I'm just hoping it _is_ my name, written in the shirt of that beautiful creature.

When I look at him, I feel lonely. There's no one like me out there, no one for me to be with. I'm jealous of him. He's alive, he's with his friends who care about him. I'm all alone. There are times when his eyes meet accidentally mine and move away abruptly, like in pain. I want to comfort him, tell him I'll never hurt him, but again, I just sit and watch.

Then the night comes, waking my hunger, my deadly thirst. Night with no lines to stop me or prey to escape me.

Get down limitless night. I _am_ the beast of blood.

Last words: I'd love to have a beta-reader, but I just don't know anyone who's good in English and likes to read my depressing fics.. So forgive me the mistakes. And also, thanks for everyone that reviewed to my last stories. I love you all! 3


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